


Forever Young

by a_little_chai



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Death, Feels like a One-Shot, Gen, Gen Work, Gun Violence, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapped Spencer Reid, Mental Instability, Original BAU Team, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Reid's in it, Revenge, Sad with a Happy Ending, Semi-Permanent Injury, Song Lyrics, Spencer Reid Whump, Spencer Reid-centric, Team as Family, William Reid's A+ parenting, but it isn't, not of any main characters, of course there's statistics, statistics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: Almost one year ago, an innocent little boy was lost at the hands of the FBI. The world didn't stop turning, people didn't stop living. Everything stayed exactly the same, despite the child that was missing from the world. A vow of revenge was sworn that day, a promise that someone would pay for the innocence that was lost.Spencer Reid is just the one who has to pay that price.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & The BAU Team, Spencer Reid & Unsub
Comments: 21
Kudos: 303





	Forever Young

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This story took me way too long to finish considering how many words it is, but finally it is done. Yes, it is another kidnapped!Reid story for the fandom that is completely saturated with them, but I used it as an exercise to work on a few things in my writing (namely dialogue, not that you can tell). Also, I am still pretty new to this fandom, so I apologize in advance for any characters who are OOC. Anyways, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, all warnings are in end notes. If you're concerned about anything, just jump on down there and check it out.

_Forever young  
I want to be, forever young  
Do you really want to live forever  
Forever, and ever?_

_~ "Forever Young"_

{~`~}

He watched his target move quickly out of the coffee shop, holding a small cup to his chest. The target was cold, red blossoming over his nose, cheeks, through to the edges of his ears. It was the northern United States in late January, and the thin windbreaker the man was wearing can't be keeping out the biting wind.

It did, however, do a good job of describing exactly what the target did. Those three letters he'd been waiting for all morning. 'FBI.' The nameless conglomerate known by every American citizen. The ones that were meant to keep them safe., keep them sane and healthy and protected from the evil that's out there.

Fucking bastards, all of them.

He put his phone down into the pocket of his jacket, gripping the cool handle of his weapon instead. Glock-22. The standard sidearm carried by over seventy percent of this fine country's officers in blue. Reliable, perfect. It calmed him. He knew what he was doing.

He knew why he had to do it.

The target was rushing down the street, quick enough to make his lateness apparent but not enough to be a full-out run that would cause sweat and creases to ruin a perfectly fine dress shirt. He cared about his appearance, despite the horrible button down-sweater vest combo. The target rushed past the opening of his alley, and he pressed himself deeper into the brick.

He had to make his move, now. It was time.

Walking out of the alley brought him just behind the man. Quickening his step, sidling up to his hip, slipping a decisive hand into the back of that windbreaker. Pointing the gun straight at the target's spine, while looking no more suspicious than two men walking together.

He felt everything. The sharp intake of breath beside him followed by a tensing of all his muscles. The target's feet slowing, slowing, until they were both stopped amid the city's morning rush. The coffee cup slip and fall to the ground, splashing liquid onto both of their shoes. A tentative hand reaching for the holster on the man's side-

He used his free hand to reach across the target's chest, first stopping the man's hand with a warning squeeze, then freeing his pistol from its holster and shoving it deep into his own pockets. A revolver. Interesting. Brown eyes set in deep shadows turned to face him through thin wire rims, widening when they lighted on his face. He wasn't wearing a mask, sunglasses, hat, anything to disguise himself. He knew what they'd been taught: kidnapper let's you see their face and there's no way they're going to let you live.

The man thought he was going to die.

And, shit, the man was young. Early twenties, at the oldest. This was supposed to be an agent, not some kid! He felt his heart beat a little faster. It was supposed to be some man, hair fading just like his investment in his job and justice. Some guy that he could blame for all of this. 

Someone like Walters.

But he couldn't let that shake him. He needed to do this. This was still an agent, still one of those bastards. He chose this for himself, chose to become a part of a bureau of killers. It didn't matter if he was twenty or fifty, he is no more innocent than anyone else. 

He had to remember that. 

"Clasp your hands together in front of you, where I can see them." He pressed the gun a little deeper into the man's back, feeling as it scraped over bone. Willed himself to get some pleasure from it. The target moved to comply, hands shaking slightly. Tremors, already. Maybe the kid was some probie, or an intern? Someone disposable, until he could get a real agent.

He almost gagged at the thought of shooting this kid.

 _You're not ready,_ a dark thought whispered. _You're holding on to your old morals, your old values. You need to show them the monster they created. You need to teach them a lesson_. And the dark thoughts were right, they were right. This was their fault, their own fucking fault. So what if it caused the death of another kid? 

So what? 

"Come on, agent. Walk with me." The target finally let out the breath he was holding, nodding slightly. Together, they turned around in the sidewalk, moving away from the building he hated and despised. He'd spent many sleepless, drunken nights thinking of that building, wanting to just walk inside and shoot the place up, take down as many agents as he could, before letting one of them kill him. The only thing that'd stopped him had been the knowledge that without at least a semi-auto, he'd be able to shoot one, two, at the most. And that just wasn't enough. 

Losing one or two agents wouldn't cause enough pain, it wouldn't let them know what he went through, those sleepless nights so many months ago. 

They wouldn't learn. 

He directed the man into an alley, where his car was parked deep inside and shrouded by the shadows of the buildings surrounding them. He pointed at the passenger door with his free hand, making sure to push the gun deeper into the target's spine. A warning. "Open it, slowly." 

He watched as the target moved his hand steadily towards the handle, before jerking back and elbowing him. The sharp bone caught him in the nose, and, dazed, he just managed to avoid a knee jerked towards his stomach and groin.

He pushed the agent into the side of the car, arm shoved deep into his throat, and whipped the gun against his head. His glasses flew off somewhere in the distance, almost certainly broken. He put a hand over the target's mouth, feeling the warm, panted breaths against his palm. The sharp yelp that came out was muffled as he hit the agent again and again. By the fifth hit, the agent was slumped against his arm, his hair clumped from the gash that was no doubt there. 

A warm, content feeling washed over him as he saw blood trail down the target's pale skin. 

He quickly opened the passenger door, shoving the man into the seat. Within seconds, he was in the driver's seat, holding a hand to his nose that was getting bloodier by the second. Jesus, it hurt! It wasn't like his nose had never been broken before, but the sharp stinging pain still angered him.

After everything, _everything_ , that these people had put him through-

"I should shoot you, pulling that shit like that, you little bastard!" He yelled, glancing over at the target. He was leaning heavily onto the window, the glass was fogging up from fast, panted breaths. "You're lucky I need a living agent to send my message, not a dismembered one, or I would happily cut your tongue out and send it back to your friends in a little box."

He thought he saw a small shudder travel through the man's body. Shoulders tensed, eyes stayed low and diverted, knees curled slightly inwards. Huddling, making himself smaller. The actions of a frightened man. 

"I'm sorry, I... I-I'm sorry. Please don't, don't h-hurt me." The target whispered, voice cracking. 

Soft, demure, terrified. The exact opposite of the spitfire from a few seconds ago. If his nose hadn't still been smarting from the elbow smashing into his face, he might've believed the whole 'kicked puppy' act. The kid was quick, he'd give him that. "Don't you dare try to profile me, you bastard." 

"I-I wasn-"

"I _swear_ , if you make one more move towards me or do any of that 'profiling analysis' bull _shit_ , I will shoot you in the leg, tie you up, and gut you until you beg me to kill you. I can always find another agent."

The agent finally looked up, meeting his gaze. He saw the fear there, pain and confusion, but also anger. Apparently, he finally realized he was not the gullible man that every other agent he runs across seems to think he is. At least he finally dropped the charade. This kid was certainly no victim. 

"I am a federal agent, and it is a felony to assault me, kidnap me, or threaten me. And as convinced as you must be otherwise, you are not going to get away with this. When my team finds you, and they _will_ find you, you're going to jail for a long time. They won't stop until they hunt. you. down." The target's voice was slow and pained, shaking slightly, but surprisingly strong. Convicted.

He punched the agent, hard, across the cheek, watching as his head whipped back into the window. He let out a low groan, coughing and swearing quietly under his breath, tongue darting out to lick the small drop of blood that escaped the corner of his mouth.

He reached into the middle console and took out a pair of flexi-cuffs, throwing them into the agent's lap. "Tie yourself to the door handle." After a second where it looked like the agent was trying to catch his breath, or just debating his options, he threaded his wrists and the handle through the thick plastic and tightened them.

"Where's your badge?"

"..."

He drew his gun and pushed it into the agent's forehead, watching as fear steadily replaced the anger in his eyes as they locked on the black barrel before squinting tightly shut. _"Where. Is. Your. Fucking. Badge."_

".... back pocket of, of my pants." And there was that fear, hidden in the slight crack and tremor of his voice. The terror that slipped through the posturing and bravado. This time, it wasn't an act. 

He reached down into the target's corduroys, grabbing the leather bifold and a PDA, trying desperately to ignore the quick, heavy breathing of the other man. Spencer Reid, the badge said. Supervisory Special Agent, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Huh. So, a real agent then.

"Do you have any other weapons?" There was a head shake in reply, and looking at the kid, he wanted to think that he couldn't be hiding a pocket knife or a second firearm somewhere, but he did a quick pat-down anyways. The agent really was shaking now, fingers twitching slightly, jumping, leg bouncing up and down.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. When he'd thought this whole shit-show up, he'd been half out of his mind drunk. _You're going to watch the life leave him, going to feel as he struggles against you, and its going to be so damn good_ , he'd thought. He wanted to enjoy this. Enjoy looking at this agent, his prey, completely at his mercy. Hell, the punk had broken his nose. But now, he just felt sick. Those brown eyes were so much like Eli's. The long, tousled brown hair that laid messily across his forehead.

_This is your revenge, Markus. This is what you've been waiting for for so long, and finally, its here._

His stomach still lurched a bit as he grabbed the plastic bag from a cup holder, opening it. He watched as terror began to fill the agent's eyes, how his hands began to pull against the bonds he'd secured himself only a few minutes before. And he did feel it, a bit. The excitement pooling in his abdomen, the righteous fury burning in his head. 

He'd only wished he'd gotten himself really drunk this morning so he could feel that pleasure so much more. Half a bottle of whiskey was not enough for this. 

He gagged when he shoved the plastic around the agents head, watching him yelp and struggle as he fought to get air. Short nails scratched deep into the skin on his leg, the only part of his body close enough to the agent's hands. Not enough to bleed, but enough to leave small red marks under his pants that he was sure would haunt his nightmares for decades to come. 

Those brown eyes fluttered closed. Breathing started again, however labored and ragged, as the agent slumped onto the seat, unconscious. He quickly opened his door, throwing up onto the dirty pavement. 

It was done. And he'd be damned if he made it this far just to give up and turn himself in and call it quits. This would make things right in the world. This would make them listen.

This was for Eli.

...he needed a drink.

{~`~}

_He stepped off the elevator, looking around at the shining metal walls. He was here. He was really here. After two years waiting for the proper waivers and paperwork to go through bureaucratic channels, twenty weeks of training (most of which had been exempted for him anyways), and six months with a probationary status that kept him tied to a desk going over stale case files and doing whatever he could to prove himself, he was here. Ready to meet the BAU._

_Agents Aaron Hotchner, Elle Greenaway, Derek Morgan, and Gideon. Eighty-two percent closure rate, an average of one major serial case per month. The job he'd been dreaming of since he first saw Gideon presenting at CalTech when he was eighteen and completely lost on what to do with his life after academia._

_There was a young, blonde woman walking up to him, an arm load of case files balanced on one arm like she was used to carrying them. Agent Jennifer Jareau, interdepartmental and media liaison. She reached out her hand, and, nearly wincing in awkwardness, he waved back. She probably thought he was some freak now, some weird person who managed to get past security and-_

_"Are you Dr. Reid?"_

_"Yeah, uh, yeah, I am."_

_She smiled, and he was struck by the genuine warmth it held. "My name is Jennifer Jareau, the liason for the department. The team is in the conference room for a debriefing, they just got back from working a case in Wichita last night. It's not far, but let me show you where it is. Can't have you getting lost on your first day."_

_"Thank you, Ms. Jareau."_

_"Oh, please, just call me JJ. Everyone does." She glanced back at him, still showing that a hundred megawatt (no, petajoules, megawatt was far too dim to describe it) smile._

_"Well, then, thank you, Ms- uh, JJ."_

_He followed her down through the hallway, smiling slightly as he gripped his messenger bag, his fingers barely playing with the worn leather strap. For probably (definitely) the first time in his life, he was excited to walk into a room full of new people._

{~`~}

Spencer Reid was floating, floating in darkness. He couldn't see and, for one of only several times in his life, he couldn't understand what was happening. The world was spinning and he's falling and there's- there's pain, a lot of pain. His head hurt, ached in the same horrible way as his migraines always did. Ice picks stabbing deep into his brain. He could hear something, a faint _whooshing_ sound that he knew he should be able to place, but just couldn't.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. It was dark and muddled and decidedly not normal and he needed to be able to think. That was what he was supposed to be so good at, right? Thinking? 

Remember, he had to remember. How did he get here? Why is he here? When, what, where? That eidetic memory hiding somewhere in his amygdala was not cooperating and he needed his mind to collect and gather those 187 IQ points to figure out exactly what was happening and how to get out of it.

Right now, that seemed like the most difficult task he'd ever been asked to do. Harder than trying to derive the functional equation of the Riemann Zeta function. Harder than stepping off that bus when he was ten and starting his first day of high school. Harder than signing the papers to send his mom to some state-run facility because he didn't have the money for anything better and he just couldn't, _couldn't_ , take care of her anymore. Not how she needed to be taken care of. Not on his own. 

But he could die, if he didn't do this. That is what's at stake here. His life. And, even with his mind begging him to just float away and let the soft waves of unconsciousness take him back, he knew that was important. Life meant waking up another day to the sun flowing through his window. Life meant drinking another cup of bad coffee and getting teased by Morgan and solving cases and just living. And he wanted to keep living. 

So he forced himself to remember. 

He'd been late. His alarm clock hadn't gone off and his train had been delayed. He'd laughed bitterly, as he'd hurriedly gotten dressed, thinking it'd been the perfect cliche, showing up to work late with messed up hair and no contacts in. He faintly remembered the subway, bodies packed much too tight together, the smell of sweat and loud voices giving him jitters and a steadily worsening headache. The coffee shop, pouring sugar (an obscene amount, as everyone says, although he thinks that the delicious taste and caffeine percentage far outweighs the damage he's doing to his intestines) into his coffee, eventually just ending up spilling it all across the whole counter as his hands shook. 

Then he was jogging towards the office, slowly, hoping that the sweat wouldn't be noticeable and he'd be able to avoid the relentless teasing Morgan would subject him to if he found out about this. The last time he'd been late to work, the man had given him a cheap kids watch the next day, along with a slightly nicer alarm clock for Christmas a month later. 

He should have known that a gift from Morgan was going to stop working sooner rather than later.

If it had been a normal day, maybe he'd have been more alert. But the subway and the cafe and everything was just pressing down on him and he couldn't stop shaking and then he'd felt a gun at his back, a warm, clammy hand reaching over and grabbing his own sidearm, the one he'd just been cleared to use after weeks of Hotch coaching him. 

This couldn't be happening. 

That was his first thought. .0037% of adults are kidnapped in the United States each year. Less than half of a hundredth of a percent (being an agent brought that number up significantly, but he did _not_ want to think about that). And yet there he'd been, with a pistol pointed at his back, leading him to the car where-

That must be why his head hurt. Why his thoughts were refusing to organize themselves. Less a lingering migraine, more a concussion. 

He remembered snippets, after. Initially pretending to be cowed by the man, thinking that he was an arrogant narcissist who felt a need to establish dominance. He had followed the training he'd been given, all that he'd learned from the best group of profilers in the country. Appease the person who had a gun trained on you. Be calm, concise. 

He remembered the punch that landed across his jaw. The dots that had swarmed his vision. Everything faded into greyscale, then. Putting the cuffs around his wrists, the man's hands searching over his body. The bag that came around his head and-

Minor oxygen deprivation on top of the concussion. He should be in the hospital, not here, wherever here is. He needs an MRI and possibly a CAT scan and his head _hurts_ , it really hurts. More than any migraine he's had recently, more than the one (and only) hangover he's experienced. 

He just wants to sleep. 

He heard the odd _whooshing_ sound again. It sounded almost like an AC. That would mean he was in a house or some other kind of building that required cooling. His kidnapper had never once addressed him by name, meaning it was likely that this was a random abduction. That gave him absolutely no leads as to where he could be. 

There was something in his mouth. A gag, rough cloth that was quickly drying out his tongue. His eyes were closed, and the pounding in his head begged him to leave them like that and bask in the darkness. But he needed to assess his surroundings, that was the number one step they'd been told at the Academy: always know what's around you. 

The light was even worse than he'd thought it'd be. It sent shards of glass into his skull, and he couldn't help but let out a groan stopped mostly by the gag. Concussion was a definite. He needed cognitive rest, not... not _this_. 

He tried to bring a hand up to his aching head, but something around his wrist stopped him. He looked down at a handcuff, both metal rings wrapped around his wrists, with a safety railing stuck between. He tugged on them, but it did nothing but cause pain. 

He felt his breathing pick up, heart start beating hard enough that he could feel it in his head, his chest, his toes. This was happening, this was really happening. This was not some drill they'd run at Quantico, or a nightmare that someone else experienced that he'd read in a case file, so vivid he could imagine it. This was really happening. 

_Get a hold of yourself,_ he thought, taking a few steadying breaths. _You will get through this, you just need to keep a clear head._ He needed to push it all down, compartmentalize the fear and anger and trauma to deal with later, when he was safe. Right now, he needed to focus on _this_.

He was laying on a bed. A bed with covers showing rocket ships and planets, the ceiling above him decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. This was a child's bed, a child's room, not an adult's. So he was restrained and gagged on a child's bed, suffering from a concussion and hypoxia.

It was obviously a boy's room. Painted a light blue and lacking any windows. Posters on the wall of actors and dogs, trophies for some sport on a shelf above a dresser. The overhead light was shaped like a soccer ball and his lamp a baseball. Drawings were hung up on the far wall, what looked like schoolwork, but without his glasses he couldn't make them out. 

He'd been lucky. In the relatively short time (eight months, sixteen days, hours, he didn't know, he hated that he didn't know) he's been with the BAU, there's been no major serial cases involving children that they've gone on-site for. He's never had to stand in a room just like this one, with crying parents just outside, wondering what hell this child was living through. He knew that, at some point, it would happen. He would have to face one of those cases that add another crack in each of them as they watch innocence being lost forever and being unable to do a single thing about it. 

This morning, when he'd woken up, he surely hadn't thought that that day would be today. And especially not like this. 

He tried to sit up a bit, using his elbows as leverage, but it only made the room spin and twist like a roller-coaster. He's only ever been on one, goaded into it by Morgan after a particularly rough case that'd earned them a day off. On the first loop, he'd thrown up all over his friend, and he hadn't stopped feeling sick for the rest of the day. 

And that had been where his second Christmas present had come from: barf bags, courtesy of Elle, who had been sitting in the ride a row behind them. The picture had not been pretty. 

But this wasn't some roller coaster where, as much as he hates to admit it, the risk of death is nominal (nearly four people die on roller coasters every year, Morgan!). He's an FBI agent, kidnapped by a clearly organized UnSub with a gun (two now), strapped and gagged to a bed. He needs to do whatever he needs to to get out of here, and if that means working through a concussion and hypoxia, he's going to damn well do it. 

He's seen the looks he gets, from agents and local LEOs. Even from the team, months ago, before he really knew them. He wasn't strong, physically, or particularly imposing. His gun was his best asset in a fight, a weapon he was sorely lacking right now. But he did have his mind, and that had gotten him this far. 

He needed a profile. 

The UnSub was confident, arrogant. He'd held an FBI agent at gunpoint on a busy street during morning rush hour barely a block away from the federal building. He was quick to anger, but nothing so far has shown him to be sadistic or sociopathic. He'd only injured him when he'd put up a fight. The level of planning and efficiency showed that he was clearly organized. Intelligence shown by the way the UnSub quickly realized he had profiled him. 

He'd been suffocated. As far as ways to knock someone unconscious, it was an interesting choice. A sadist would've choked him or knocked him out physically. A professional likely would have drugged him. Suffocation indicated that the UnSub didn't derive pleasure from hurting him, nor did he easily have other means on hand. And he was certain he'd seen something like remorse in the man's eyes just before he'd passed out. 

Confident, organized, intelligent. Remorseful. Likely personal goal-driven. The Avenger. Simple revenge was the most common primary objective, in this case either on the FBI or United States government as a whole. The UnSub had a plan. And he would stick to this plan at all costs. His best chance was to appeal to his empathy, humanize himself so it he wouldn't just be a faceless substitute for the Bureau, so the UnSub wouldn't have such an easy time hurting-

He heard another _whooshing_ sound, but there was something else, something... like footsteps. He sat up, this time ignoring the world’s rapid tilting in favor of frantically tugging on the handcuffs. But they were firmly locked around the railing, and he only succeeded in adding more bruises to his wrists. 

A tear of pure frustration and fear trickled steadily down his face. He couldn't even wipe it away. 

Something akin to a sob left his mouth. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to be the person he needed to be, the confident profiler that could coldly analyze the situation. His head was still killing him and he didn't have anything resembling a plan, and there was _something_ , something about this room-

But fate didn't care if he was ready to face the harsh reality of what his life had become, and the door creaked open. 

He had hoped, beyond hope, that it would be Morgan walking through that door. Hotch or Elle or Gideon coming in to rescue him and save him from the hell was surely about to begin. 

It wasn't, though. There was no shouts of 'FBI,' no LEOs of whatever town he's in backing up the team. No, it was just the man. The one who had held him at gunpoint in the middle of a crowded street. The one who had patted him down, seeming to revel in his discomfort. And the one who he'd watched, through the distorted misty plastic of the bag that'd been over his head, as the last breaths left his lungs and black faded in. 

That man was standing before him, in plain jeans and a plaid shirt, holding a school bag. Thirty years old, about, lines beginning to appear around his eyes. Short brown hair framed a kind face and chestnut eyes. 'Average' was the only word that could come to mind. The kind of person one would pass on the street and wouldn't give a second glance to. 

Except if that man had a gun, just like he did now. 

Spencer stopped tugging against the cuff, looking instead at the man and his gun. _Empathy, humanity. Establish trust and a rapport. Cooperate. Find out why you're in this room and, however hard it might be, sympathize with him. He believes he is doing the right thing. Don't try to convince him otherwise._

It was Gideon's voice in his head, Gideon telling him steadily what to do, so his mind couldn't wander off in a million directions. His frantic thoughts grasped onto that calming voice like an anchor in rough sea. 

"Your friends have been looking for you. The FBI can organize quite a manhunt when they lose one of their own." The man pulled the safety on the gun slowly off, watching him. Studying him. There was something like pleasure in his eyes when he stiffened, heart rate suddenly shooting up. 

Spencer stayed as still as he could as he waited for the bullet that would kill him to sound, hands twitching nervously in the cuffs. Even if killing him this soon wasn't in the profile, it didn't make having a gun ready to shoot at your head any less chilling. 

"Why did you take me?" He asked, his voice wavering. He cursed himself that it did. 

The man laughed, a bitter, cold sound. "You'll learn why when _I_ decide you should, and that is certainly not now. Trust me when I say I will shoot you dead if you don't cooperate, so don't worry your pretty head with questions like _why_."

"The, the FBI... our purpose is to _protect_ you. T-That's why I became an agent, to help people. If someone hurt you, law enforcement or not, I can- I, I _will_ make sure that-" 

"What, you'll make sure they face justice? You will personally see to it that I get my revenge, as long as I let you _go_? I'm not another poor, gullible bastard that you can manipulate just by waving a badge around and shouting your ridiculous titles, _Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid_. I know all your tricks, so I suggest you drop the act and listen to everything I say, because I will not repeat it." 

He looked at his bound hands, the tiny specks of blood that dotted his fingertips from before, long dried. _This man might be remorseful, but he wasn't going to stop, not now. He's going to see this through 'til the end and, Spencer, you have to make sure you're still breathing when that happens._

"What do you want me to do?" 

The safety clicked back on, and he let out a deep sigh of relief. The man threw the book bag onto the bed. Inside the main pocket, unzipped, was a notepad and a pencil box, sitting beside a bottle of water. "Grab the paper and a pen. There's a note I need you to write."

"I, I'm not going to be able to write with these handcuffs on." He said, tugging on the cuffs for good measure. The chain linking them was slightly larger than standard issue, but not comfortable by any measure. 

"Deal with it, 'cause those aren't coming off until this is over." 

"I-"

"Unless you want me to turn the safety back off this gun. Or I could even grab yours, the revolver? Wanna play a little Russian Roulette, _Dr._ Reid? Maybe it'll get the blood flowing through that big smart brain of yours?"

He didn't move, frozen by the sudden, horrifying realization that he could die here, with handcuffs still binding him to a child's bed. That this UnSub could kill him, right now, and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it. 

"I've been wondering, _Dr._ Reid, how long would it take for a man to bleed out from a bullet through the gut? I'm sure you would know, what, with those fancy doctorates of yours," The UnSub slowly clicked the safety off again and he forced his body to function ( _cooperate, you have to cooperate. Reach the end, get out alive_ ), and got his trembling hands to grab the items from the backpack. 

__"You researched me?"_ _

"Well, if I hadn't, I wouldn't have known I was in the presence of such an important person. A verifiable _genius_ , no less, complete with three PhDs and a memory certified by the US justice system. It's amazing what fate will do, isn't it? That the agent I took happens to be the youngest ever in the FBI, the baby of the bureau?" The man finally put the gun away, tucked it into the back of his jeans, and sat down on the edge of the bed, just out of reach. Eyes burning with a madness Reid hoped he'd never see again. "Tell me, Spencer, do you believe in God?" 

__The pen he was holding could've snapped from the pressure he was putting on it as he opened the notepad to a clean sheet. "I... I think that it's possible t-that there is a, a higher being out there, that fate, destiny, whatever you may call it, brings people together for a, uh, reason."_ _

"'Everything happens for a reason,' right? That's what my mom always told me. 'God has a plan, even if you might not know it now.' I never really believed in it myself. It's hard to think that there's some kind of _divine plan_ when everything in your life gets fucked up. And if that is the work of some God, then he's as much of a bastard as you." 

The man quickly shifted forwards, grabbing Reid by the front of his shirt. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, strong and pungent and most certainly _there_. That would explain the change in personality. The lack of remorse, the borderline sadism the UnSub was showing now. They always said it only took a little bit of alcohol to completely change some people. 

__It'd been awhile since he'd seen the truth in that statement first hand. Much longer since he felt the ache of fading bruises from it._ _

__"I'm going to tell you exactly what to write and how to do it. No passing secret notes, no shit written in the margins. All capitals, spaced evenly apart. No periods, no extra spaces between words. Every letter must be an exact copy of the one before it, no changing handwriting or anything."_ _

__"What... what do you want me to write?"_ _

"Two words repeated until the page is full." the gun was suddenly back in the man's hand, pressing into the soft skin under his chin. The barrel was cold. The man's mouth was right next to his ear, whispering hot and moist. "You know what'll happen if you do anything, _anything_ , to cross me, don't you?" Spencer just closed his eyes, struggling to breathe as the gun only pushed deeper into his skin. " _Don't. You?_ " 

__He nodded, slightly, and the gun was taken away. The man pushed him back, and he couldn't help but let out a gasp as his wrists were tugged cruely by the cuffs as he landed hard on the mattress. He laid there, grimacing at his pounding head and sudden nausea. A groan passed through his lips._ _

__It took a second, but he manged to sit back up and grab the pen and paper. "What... What are the words?"_ _

__"Elijah Williams." The words were hard, unyielding in their meaning, but there was something else, something.... hidden in the syllables._ _

__Hyper-aware of the UnSub just a few feet away from him, he started to write. Those two words, again and again, exactly how the man wanted. He wracked his brain, used every ounce of his IQ, but couldn't think of a way to pass a message without the man noticing. And he had no doubt that once that happened, there'd be an extra hole in him somewhere._ _

__Elijah Williams. The name wasn't familiar. He would remember it if he had read it. That meant it was unlikely that the UnSub was enacting revenge against the BAU versus the FBI as a whole. He'd read the case files of practically every on-site assessment the BAU or BSU has ever done, all the way back. None of them mentioned an Elijah Williams, victim or otherwise._ _

__He was in a child's room, writing a name on a sheet of paper, after being kidnapped by an UnSub clearly looking for revenge. This... he's missing something, some important piece of information, like trying to solve an equation without knowing if it was adding or subtracting. It was frustrating, he wanted to scream and cry and just let his emotions take over but-_ _

__Darkness was creeping in at the corner of his eyes, the stress and pain and terror pressing down at him all at once. He couldn't pass out, not yet. He needed to do this, he needed to figure out what this UnSub wants. He needed to write this letter and get through today._ _

___You need to reach the end. Do whatever you need to, but get out alive._ _ _

__He let his mind wander when he was writing. Let it go blank and just breathed, pushing the darkness back a while longer. His head hurt, his wrists hurt. It wasn't until his pen ran off the paper and onto his thigh that he forced himself back into the present. The blue ink covered a single sheet._ _

____

E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S E L I J A H W I L L I A M S

There was no secret code. There wasn't anything differing from the UnSub's instructions except for a few drops of blood smeared across the letters. His wrist had started bleeding, the cuffs digging in too deep and finally breaking the skin. He stopped, looking up slowly at the UnSub. The gun was not pointed at him. Instead, a small, cold smile was on his face.

"Good _boy_ , Dr. Reid! I see you _can_ follow instructions. The blood was certainly a nice touch, one I'm sure your colleagues at the BAU will appreciate." He ripped the paper off his lap, grabbing the backpack. "I'm sure they're going half out of their minds with you missin'."

Spencer let his eyes close, the darkness steadily winning. He felt the mattress shift as the UnSub came even closer, pushing something against his lips. He felt water push against them, and swallowed it down eagerly. The empty bottle was tossed on his lap. 

"Consider that a reward, of sorts, for cooperating. And your bathroom for the foreseeable future." The UnSub said, as he moved to replace the gag. He wanted to struggle, scream at his own helplessness, but he couldn't. His best (and only) weapon was going to be taken away from him again. 

"What's your name?" 

The words out of his mouth before he could even consider them and their consequences. In the heavy silence that followed, he managed to crack an eye open, looking at the brown gaze of the man so close to him. Every warm breath the UnSub took brushed against his skin. 

"My name? You wanna know my name?" The UnSub sat there for a second, seemingly considering the question, before answering. "Markus. Call me Markus." 

Spencer nodded, wetting his dry lips before answering, "Thank you, Markus."

"You deserve to know the name of the man who will kill you." 

With that, the gag was roughly shoved in his mouth, the door slammed shut, and Spencer finally let the darkness rush over him once more. 

He couldn't even feel the pressure on his wrists. He was unconscious before he hit the mattress.

{~`~}

_  
_

_It was his first on-site case. He'd been working with the BAU for thirty-two days._

_There was an UnSub murdering low-risk married women in Tacoma, luring them to his car and knocking them unconscious before dragging them into the woods. Once there, he beats them, assaults them, then takes their wedding ring as a trophy._

_That's what the case file said, recounting the events passively, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. And he was used to that; it didn't bother him._

_The coroner's report details the lividity of their bruises, the various states of decomposition they were found in after lying in the deep woods for weeks, even months. There were pictures. Of their skin, of the bite marks adorning it from animals looking for a free meal. And of their face, eyes looking back unblinking, accusing him from the paper. And he'd looked at them, carefully, trying to discern some pattern or ritual that the team hadn't seen._

_This was what he was used to: horrible details confined to a file fifteen other agents had seen before him. It was easy to pretend it wasn't real, that Lindsey Hughes hadn't actually existed. But in the field, that detachment wasn't possible._

_So he'd thrown up when he saw the latest victim, found after twenty-five days of sitting in a dank, dried-up river bed in the middle of a national forest. The bruises were a deep black. This one hadn't had eyes; the crows had already taken them._

_The report said they'd been blue._

_She was twenty-three._

_He hated it. He'd hated the looks the local officers had thrown at him as he nearly passed out in that forest, only staying standing because Morgan (of course it had to be Morgan) caught him. The ones of disgust that begged the question 'how the_ hell _did this kid manage to get all the way not only into the BAU, but into the field?'_

_He found himself asking the same question. For days, it nagged at the back of his mind._

_Why was he here? He should be working as a professor at a university, getting lost in complex math and biology and using his infamous IQ, instead of chasing serial killers around armed with nothing but a profile and a healthy dose of fear._

_He knew why they wanted him in the Bureau, of course. They wanted his brain, just like every other alphabet agency in this country and the next. They wanted someone who could recognize patterns in the victims and read case reports going back ten years in ten minutes. The kind of person who could figure out what bio-weapon was being built by a list of chemicals and create the antidote for it within a matter of hours (he'd only done that once, completely theoretically, when he was a bored eight year old on summer vacation who had an.... interesting fascination with bio-toxins)._

_But they could have gotten that from him sitting at a desk back in Quantico, like Garcia did in her 'lair.'_

_Why did they let him into the field?_

_On the plane back, after, when everyone was busy, he'd watched Gideon look at a picture in his wallet. A new one, of the victim they managed to save. She'd been in bad shape, but they found her in time. That picture had been from her college graduation, three months earlier. He had hand-picked him for this job, he'd been the one to sign the waivers that let him onto the team, the one who pushed for the age-restriction to be ignored._

_Why?_

_Elle got up from a chair and sat next to him on the couch, gently closing the book he was pretending to read. He'd tried, but the words just melted together and his brain wouldn't focus. He'd tried to flip the pages at the right times, but he was pretty sure no one bought it._

_"What's wrong, Reid? Something's been up with you all day." She asked._

_"How did you-?"_

_"Profiler, remember?"_

_"Right," He laughed slightly, before finally meeting her eyes. He didn't know these people, not really. He shouldn't burden them with his problems. But he wanted (needed) a friend, and they were so kind to him. So, so kind._

_"Why me?" He murmured, more to himself than anything else. Seeing the confused look on her face, he tried to elaborate. "Why am I here, Elle?"_

_"You know why, Reid. We never would've cracked this case without you. You're a literal genius in everything but Spanish, pequeño genio."_

_He smiled at the pet name for a second, before continuing. "I-I mean, why am I in the field? I had to get waivers for every physical test at Quantico. I was meant to stay at headquarters, not go out to, to murder scenes. I can't even carry a gun!"_

_"Profilers don't need to carry guns, and besides, we all have your back. Morgan'll break down any doors for you. Y'know how much he likes doing that, makes him feel all strong and manly."_

_"Elle, I....I'm twenty-one years old. I have no social skills, no prior law enforcement experience, and I can't shoot my way out of a wet paper bag! I'm an agent who can't stand the sight of a dead body." He looked down at his hands for a second, noticing the frantic rhythm they had begun tapping against his thigh. "I'm a liability."_

_'I shouldn't be here' was left unspoken, but universally understood._

_Elle looked like she was about to respond, but Gideon turned around, taking off his glasses and looking him straight in the eyes. "You bring things to this team beyond your intellect, Spencer."_

_"What?" He asked, internally cursing at the sudden involvement of another person in what he hoped was a private conversation. Looking around the jet, he saw every member of the team looking at him. Sometimes, he hated the fact they were all profilers. He really wasn't used to that yet._

_"You're sincere, and honest. Your personality is wholly genuine and fundamentally you. As uncomfortable as you may feel talking to local law enforcement, you've handled yourself better in the field than I would have expected from any first-year agent, regardless of age." Hotch said, looking up from the case file he'd been reading._

_Before Spencer could even think of an appropriate response, Morgan walked back from the kitchenette, where he'd been pretending to make coffee for the past three and half minutes, throwing an arm around his shoulders. His words were quiet, but stoic. Unwavering in their truthfulness. "The first time I saw a dead body, it was some gang-banger who'd been killed in a drive-by. A single GSW between the eyes, hardly any blood. I got sick whenever I thought about it for weeks, and that wasn't half as bad as that girl back there. You're the only one of us who didn't stand next to a dead body and carry on talking about things like 'motive' and 'opportunity,' and that's a damn good thing, kid. You care about more than catching a killer and putting some perp behind bars. It gets easier, trust me, but hold onto that sick feeling in your stomach and make sure you don't ever completely lose it."_

_He reached a hand up and squeezed Morgan's, a silent thanks for which he got a hearty shoulder pat in return before the senior agent continued to his seat._

_"Reid, you are an asset to this team, and I'm sure anyone you ask would say the same. If you wish to leave the field, talk to me in private after we land, but I hope whatever decision you make is the right one. This team will be here for you no matter what you decide." Hotch finished, before picking up one of the folders that was spread across the table, signaling the end of the conversation._

_He looked down at the book in his hands, and smiled. For the first time since that request for admittance was submitted over three years ago, he absolutely knew that this was the right decision._

_That he belonged here._

_And after always being the youngest, the weirdest, the odd one out, having a place where he actually fit? It was a damn good feeling._

_He whispered softly as he opened his book._

_"Thank you, Elle."_

_"Always, mi querido genio."_

{~`~}

The board at the BAU was nearly empty.

There was a letter tacked in one corner, the same two words repeated again and again until it ran off the page. It'd been priority shipped along with a silver revolver and hardly-worn credentials. Testing found the fingerprints of one Spencer Reid on all of the items, his blood staining the letter. A tech analyst had cried when she got those results back. Not even a fuzzy animal had been able to comfort her. 

There was a picture of a boy, ten, eleven maybe. The name 'Elijah Williams' written hastily on a note card under it. Just beside, another picture, this time of a man. The likeness between him and the boy was unmistakable. 'Markus Williams.' 

Five written statements, carefully tacked up. Five people who saw a federal agent walk away into a dark alley, never to be seen again. Nothing to indicate he'd gone in distress, no evidence of where he went. It was remarkable they remembered him at all. 

And there was a picture of SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, hair flopping in front of his eyes and a small smile apparent on his lips. The picture was small, something one would carry in a wallet, as this one obviously had been. There were creases on the corners, a rip just along the bottom. 

There was nothing else. 

People filtered in and out of the room. 

Aaron Hotchner. He buried his emotions deep down, focusing on the work and not letting his personal feelings get in the way. But when he wasn't in that office, wasn't staring at the board or chasing down leads, he broke down. Broke down 'cause the kid he'd grown to like and admire (and he was a kid, at heart, he was) was gone, and they had no idea where. 

Derek Morgan. The wall held crack marks from where he'd punched it, after he'd gotten the news that the raid at Markus Williams' house turned up nothing but empty rooms. He refused to believe there were tears in his eyes (there were, of course). His little brother was gone, dammit, and he wasn't going to rest until he was back safe in his arms and he could tease him until the end of oblivion (he just wanted to tease him again).

Jason Gideon. The stoic one, the one of wisdom. His eyes were clear even if his mind was not. He didn't think about what Spencer was going through, the person he thought of as more of a son than his own. No, he got into the mind of the UnSub, let that consume him, until he was Markus Williams, forty seven year old ex-cop from Flagstaff, the only thing on his record being one count of drunk and disorderly. He didn't let himself think of Spencer as anything more than his victim, a man at his mercy to enact a final revenge. Where would he keep him?

Elle Greenaway. She remembered him. Remembered the nights spent after the cases grabbing a bite to eat from some hole-in-the-wall diner down the street as Reid complained non-stop about just how many restaurant like this were shut down every year by the health department. She remembered teasing him about his horrible Spanish, only for him to blushingly ask a few days later if she could give him a few tips. She remembered him, because she knew the statistics. The Reid she knew was almost certainly dead; the only question was what's left. And she wasn't able to face that yet, not yet. 

Jennifer Jareau. The only one to call him Spence. She loved Reid in a way only a mother could love, even if they weren't related. And it was that love that kept her out there, calling police chiefs and news centers, getting Markus' picture out to the masses. It pushed her to not break down even if she wanted to do nothing but. She would find him, even if it meant tearing herself apart, because that's what a mother does. 

And Penelope Garcia. The colorful one, the bright one. Her baby was gone, her junior g-man. Some psychopath had him and she would use every code, every electronic trail to find out where that bastard is. So what if she broke down crying when she saw his picture on that board? So what if she hugged a stuffed animal to her chest as she looked through virtual tons of data? She will find her Spencer, she will. 

Not a single one of them got anywhere. 

They knew who the UnSub was, the bastard who had taken their friend and colleague. They knew where and how and almost certainly why and yet they still had no idea where he was or what he was going through (though they could certainly guess). 

The first day ended as watches struck twelve and they were still there, working. There may be dark circles under their eyes, but they refused to rest. 

They had vowed to find their friend, and they would not stop until he was safe.

{~`~}

This time, hours after he'd passed out onto a little boy's bed, Spencer couldn't gradually bring himself out of unconsciousness. He didn't have a chance to slowly, gently, become aware of his surroundings. He didn't have a moment to get his rolling emotions under control, or a millisecond to reconcile the horrible pain that's crashing through his skull.

No, he was roughly tossed into the world of the waking by a hard slap and water poured on his face. He gasped, both from the stinging ache that was steadily spreading across his cheek and the very cold water that was dribbling down his nose. He vaguely registered that the gag was out of his mouth, hanging loosely around his throat. He moved to bring a hand up to his face, but those damn cuffs stopped him. 

"Wake the hell up, boy!" Came the shouting face above him. He barely had time to open his terror-filled eyes and focus on the brown orbs above him before his shirt collar was roughly gripped and his top half was leveraged off the bed. 

Something was wrong, something was different. This was not the same UnSub he had met before. They looked the same, sounded the same, but the Markus of before wasn't... wasn't like this. He got his answer almost immediately, on the next exhalation of air from Markus' mouth. 

There it was again, same as last time, only somehow stronger. The smell of Jack Daniels and Johnnie Walker. Expensive wine and cheap, corner-store beer. The smell of nights spent terrified of what was going to happen, what was going to happen? 

( _Huddled up under the covers, reading by the light of a flashlight. He knew he shouldn't be still up, but he was just getting to the climax, and he hadn't been able to get a chance to read all day. It was just enough temptation to make his six year old self ignore the possible consequences. But his father found out, he always found out, and that smell, that smell, was all he could remember as the belt came down over and over and over)_

"Are ya listenin' to me, you little shit?" It was slurred, so slurred. Markus' cheeks were flushing a deep red and of course this was happening again, of course, of course. 

He wanted to respond, he tried to respond, but his mouth just opened and no words came out. Terror, the kind he'd felt when that gun first pressed against his back, ran through him. His fingers started up their rhythm again ( _tap tap tap_ ) against the cool metal of his restraints. Breathing sped up and his heart was galloping and he wanted, _needed_ , to scream. He needed to run and get out of this coffin that was pressing ever downwards onto him and he knew, he knew what was happening. 

He knew that he was panicking. And he knew that he had to stop. He forced himself to focus on the pain lancing through his head, the cool breeze the air conditioner was pushing onto his ankles where his socks had rolled down. There was a faint smell of mold. He listened to every beat of his heart as it steadily, steadily, slowed down. 

And then he opened his eyes again, looking into Markus'. He was watching him, _studying_ him, with something so akin to lust he almost gagged in his eyes. Gone was the man who had winced as he had suffocated him. Gone was the man who had watered him, even if it was only because his hands were tied. Now, there was only a monster, a sadist who thrived off his pain. . 

It's amazing how much alcohol can change a person. 

( _10,947 people killed by DUIs every year in the US. 2,200 deaths due to alcohol poisoning. An unknown number suffering physical or emotional harm at this very moment because of its effects..._ ) 

And there was silence, for a second. As both men looked at the other in a moment of weakness, a moment where their shells were cracked and they really saw each other. Spencer didn't feel like a federal agent, like a person who trained for situation like this, who spent those twenty weeks in training at Quantico. No- he felt like a man. 

A normal, ordinary, terrified man. 

The moment was gone as his shirt was let go and he crashed back onto the mattress, groaning as his head swam. It was gone when a fist came down on him, once, twice, smashing into his left cheekbone with bruising force. Only a soft whimper passed his lips as more pain slammed into him, the world quickly tilting. 

Markus gripped his hair with one hand and pulled a knife from his pocket with the other, flicking it open and holding it to his throat. The light refracted off the blade, reflecting into his eyes with a murderous glee stronger than any UnSub he's faced. The silver blade settled just above the rough fabric of the gag. 

"Are you scared, agent?" Markus asked, eyes tracking to Spencer's heavy swallow and the nick it caused on his neck. Blood, very little, stained the blade. "Do you feel helpless? Trapped? _Violated?_ "

"M-Markus? You, y-.. you don't have to do this. I can help yo-" His voice cracked and trembled and he hated the weakness that it showed. Hated that he couldn't hide those feelings away and put up the barrier he knew he needed to. 

"How can you help me, you bastard? Tell me how you can _fucking_ help me! You're the ones that killed him, you're the ones that let him die, and its all your fault!" The knife left his throat before slashing across his chest again and again and again, leaving four long trails of stinging, dotting red. A choked-back scream left his mouth, half-muffled by a hand slapped over his lips. 

"S-Stop, ple-!" 

"You're a killer, a murderer, y'all are! You fucking killed him, you're all murderous sons of bitches!" The knife was back, cutting, cutting. His brain was muted, numb, as he felt his shirt be cut away, then line after line being ripped into his stomach. It _hurt_ , it hurt so, so much, like a deep slicing pain that just wouldn't stop, wouldn't stop. He could feel the knife in him, moving, ripping muscle and skin apart. 

He screamed. He screamed like he never had before, a sound of pain and heartbreak. He screamed for Hotch and Morgan and Elle, screamed for them to come and save him. But he was alone, he was so alone, lost in a pool of pain and there was no one here to help him. No team here to save him. 

He was going to die. 

And then the knife was gone, just gone, its cool caress no longer gracing his skin. He was left gasping, gagging, as the hurt consumed him. Agony, pure agony. And those fingers were back in his hair, forcing his head down to look at himself, alighting more fire to burn across him. 

'Killer.'

It was marked, no, _carved_ , in red. Unwavering, unyielding, _there_. A brand that he was sure, beyond anything else, any other fact he'd ever been taught (because right now, one plus one equal two was something he couldn't be sure of), that it would scar. That he would be left with a reminder of this day, of this time, where he had screamed for his friends and no one had come. Where he was at the complete mercy of a psychopath. 

Part of him cracked, deeply. A part of him that nothing could repair. 

Markus propelled himself over the bed's safety barrier, straddling his chest. Both of his meaty hands settled around his throat, thick fingers applying pressure to his vulnerable airway. He struggled, trying to squirm and dislodge the man, but the heavy weight on his chest stayed. His hands pulled harder against the restraints, and he dimly registered the cuts that now littered his skin under the metal. 

All he could think about was the eyes, the eyes that were hovering above him, filled with righteous fury and a terrifying pleasure. 

"Confess, you son of a bitch!"

"I didn't do anything!" 

"You killed him, you fucking bastard! You took what you wanted and then killed him like he was nothing but a piece of _shit!_ "

"M-Markus-" 

"You're a bastard, all of you agents!"

"Plea-!"

But the pressure didn't let up and as the seconds dragged on and black spots danced in his vision and he felt so, so close to lapsing into nothing, he fell limp. And it was only then that the pressure lifted, first from his throat, then from his chest. 

It took many more seconds ( _minutes, hours, he didn't know anymore, it was all an eternity_ ) of heavy breathing and darkness before his vision returned and his mind came back and he could think again, feel again. 

It all hurt, his mind, his body. The darkness that he'd just fought off was threatening to pull him under and he was so close to begging it to just take him, take him far away from everything. But there was a heat against his back, and he couldn't let his guard down. Not yet. 

Markus was lying beside him, eyes unfocused. One hand was resting gently on his shoulder, the other in his hair. It wasn't a harsh, menacing grip. The hand was petting him, soothing him. Smoothing down the trusses that had gotten messed up in the struggle. 

"M... M-Markus?" He whimpered, the words scraping against his dry and swollen throat. 

"Shhhh. I'm so sorry, Eli, I'm so, so, sorry. I hurt you, I should've protected you, I should've done somethin- I'm so sorry, my boy." The words were whispered, murmured, a continuing litany of pain and sorrow that Spencer had heard before, from the relatives of victims. 

The guilt of a parent. 

Spencer forced himself still, forced himself not to struggle and shake the man off. The alcohol-induced rage had faded, leaving only a man filled with remorse. A man (a father, he was sure now) who only saw someone in a child's bed in pain, not the FBI agent he'd just beaten and mutilated. 

Spencer's body relaxed against his will even as he felt revulsion from the man's touch. The ever-present ache in his head filled him, accompanied by agony lancing across his face, his chest, his stomach. Thoughts became nothing and the crack disappeared as everything disappeared and he floated, floated where there was no pain. 

There was no pain.

{~`~}

_He was eight years old._

_It was late, too late. The watch on his wrist says its late, twenty-three minutes past his bed time and fifty seven minutes since his dad got home from work. But school had not been good today and his brain hurt and Mom always said that he should read when his brain hurt, that it helped._

_He didn't have any books at home. Not new ones, at least. The library was only a short walk away, and Mrs. Shellington had told him there was a new shipment in a few days ago. It was only supposed to take twenty minutes (nineteen minutes and fifty seconds, plus or minus the thirty two seconds for the crossing light signal on Church Street)._

_But there were so many books, so many new books! And Mrs. Shellington had put them all in a box for him to read before she put them out on the shelves and he couldn't help himself._

_He was going to be in so much trouble. So, so much trouble._

_The streetlights turned on, the sky finally dark enough for them to turn on. His key slid into the front door a second later, and he prayed for a second before opening it. Prayed that tonight would be a good night, that his father would be in a good mood._

_He knew from the moment he walked in that tonight was not going to be a good night. He could smell in the air._

_The minutes were a blur, after. A blur of pain and heart ache and sadness that his mind couldn't handle. His mind didn't want to remember this, so it protected him. Put him in a safe place of knowledge and learning until the world outside was safe enough for him to handle._

_He said the Fibonacci sequence quietly when an empty beer bottle was flung at his head, missing him slightly but raining shards of glass down into his hair ( 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34...)._

_He recited Newton's laws when he got shoved into the wall (every object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless compelled...)._

_He whispered Robert Frost to himself, quietly, when the belt was pulled from his loops and snapped double, ready to hiss through the air (It went many years, but at last came a knock, and I thought of the door with no lock to lock...)_

_And he watched memories of himself and his parents, playing in a field a long time ago. He could barely walk, taking unsteady steps until firm hands grip his arms and steadied him. And he looked up into the eyes of his father, and screamed as the first lash was laid across his back._

_And he would never forget that smell, of pain and fear and heartbreak, that was on his father's breath._

_Never_

__

.... 

_He was ten years old._

_His father had left months ago, leaving him and his mother alone. But they were not alone, not really. Without his father there, Mom got worse. She got a lot worse. She saw spies in every camera, soldiers in every knife. She'd started drinking after his father left, and as much as he told her it was making her worse, counteracting the effects of her anti-psychotics, she wouldn't stop._

__

__

_He did everything for her, and it was draining him. He felt old far beyond his ten years._

__

__

_When he got off the bus that day (middle school, he was moving on to the regional high next month), he knew it was going to be bad. Mom hadn't recognized him this morning, and he'd been tempted to skip to make sure she ate and walked. But they were learning about radioactivity in science and maybe it was selfish, but he needed to go, even if it was for only a few hours._

_The lights were out when he walked inside. He called for his mom, carefully setting his bag down before turning on the lights. And there she was, Mom, the person he loved most in this world, holding a knife with her back in a corner. The stench of whiskey was heavy in the air._

_He doesn't remember the minutes after_. 

_He walked himself to the clinic twenty blocks away, holding a kitchen towel to his bleeding arm. He told the nurse he'd been playing cops and robbers with his friends and there'd been a sharp rock. He'd tripped. It was his fault, all his fault. She took one look at his arm and he knew she didn't believe him, but he couldn't tell her the truth. They would take him away and put her in a psych ward and he couldn't let that happen._

_He'd have to make sure there was no hidden alcohol, stashed by his father years ago, in the house. But he'd deal with that tomorrow. He had to figure out where to sleep tonight._

....

_He was twelve years old._

__

_He was halfway through his Junior year, set to graduate that summer. He couldn't believe that in a year, he'd be going to college. He couldn't believe that he made it. Mom had been doing better and it felt like nothing in the world could stop him. And, for once, he was good. His brain didn't hurt._

__

__

_Maybe that was why he didn't question going to kiss that girl behind the bleachers after school that day. Maybe that was why he didn't question why the varsity football team was gathered on the field on a day when they didn't have practice. Maybe that was why he kept walking when he saw that she wasn't behind the bleachers, listening to assurances that 'she's out in a different field, I must have misheard.'_

_By the time he realized what was happening, he was too far away for his screams to reach anyone's ears except his tormentors. And they laughed when they heard them, yelling profanities right back at him as the kid bringing the rope finally arrived._

_The captain was the one who did it. The captain was the one who tied him up with the rough rope, binding him thoroughly to the bright yellow goal post. The captain was the one to tear his clothing off, piece by piece, until he was fully exposed to the team and anyone else who might've happened on his torture. And the captain was the one who leaned in close, whispering in his ear that no one's going to find him, no one will even notice he's gone._

_The captain was the one who had beer on his breath, the acrid smell causing his chest to heave and his stomach to recoil._

_When he finally reached home, sobbing, he didn't even expect Mom to notice he'd been gone. Because the captain was right: no one cares about him_.

.... 

_He was eighteen years old._

__

_He had two PhDs, two bachelor's degrees. He was finally living in campus housing, finally able to go to CalTech and pursue a doctorate in Mathematics._

__

__

_And he hated it._

_He hated his life, he hated himself. Everything felt like one deep black hole and he wondered, always wondered, why? Why was he doing this? Why was he trying?_

_Because he was still alone. Just as alone as he'd been four years earlier and tied to that goal post. No one had cared about him, no one had loved him except for his mom. And now, now even she hated him. He'd condemned their relationship the moment he'd signed those papers to have her put in some state sanitarium. But he had to do it, he had to._

_He still hated himself for it._

_He didn't know what finally made him do it, that winter break. Maybe it was that he was back home, in an empty house, for the first time. Maybe it was the cooler weather, the darker days. He wasn't even fully aware of what he was doing until the pills were set on the table beside a plastic bag containing one six-pack of beer._

_And he was ready to do it. His shaking hands grabbed a bottle, opening it (that smell, that smell). They twisted off the top of his mom's anti-depressants, shaking all the remaining pills into his palm. And then he just sat there, trying to think, trying to think of one reason why not to do it._

_The first pill was in his mouth not a moment later._

_It dissolved bitterly on his tongue, and another quickly joined it, followed by a swift swig of beer. A third in his hand, ready, ready-_

_His phone rung. The rest of the pills fell out of his hand as he jumped, clattering to the tile floor. He looked at them, for a long second, before answering the landline_. 

_"Hello?"_

_"Is this Dr. Spencer Reid?"_

_"Yeah. Who is this?"_

_"My name is Jason Gideon, I presented at your school last week...."_

{~`~}

There was a voice, calling him back to wakefulness. A gentle hand nudging him forward out of the dark. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave the painless floating that unconsciousness brought. But the voice was worried, scared, and he needed to help them. That is what he did, right? Help people?

The moment he woke, brought gasping out of the lake of sleep, he groaned and screwed his eyes shut. Everything hurt, everything. His head was pounding and his chest ached and-

"...'urts" He whispered, the word getting caught in his throat. Oh God, it hurt so much, more than he thought anything could. Burning radiated from his chest, but worse was the aching of his head. No migraine he'd had before had come even close to this. 

"Shh, Spencer." A hand snaked under his back leveraging him up and placing him gently on stacked pillows. He whimpered at the pain that lanced through his stomach. That hand was kind, and the voice... maybe they had found him? "Drink." 

Something cool was brought to his mouth, and he eagerly swallowed the water inside, barely wincing as it traveled down his throat. It was pulled away much too soon, and he longed for it back. 

With water flowing through his veins again, he got the energy to open his eyes. He squinted through the bright lights, trying desperately to recognize the black shadow hovering over him. When he did, cold spread through his limbs and could feel his heart pounding faster in his chest. 

"G... g-get away from m-me" He said, forcing his body farther back against the pillows until he was against the wall and his handcuffs were straining against the safety railing. And Markus only came closer, gently brushing the hair off his forehead and using a cool cloth to wipe sweat from his brow. 

He'd really thought... for a moment he'd really thought that the voice had been Hotch, that they'd finally found him and he was going to be safe. That Morgan had been gently raising him up and Elle was giving him water and he didn't know how much more of this he could take. How much longer he could do this. 

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Spencer." He sighed, eyes settling on the cuts littering his stomach. "I know that doesn't mean anything, now, but I, I really didn't mean for anything to happen to you." Markus sat down on the edge of the bed, placing that backpack beside him and putting the empty water bottle back inside. "I have a problem, I know that, but... I just couldn't stop, y'know? Not after Eli died." 

His panic was still attacking him in full force, but the profiler in him saw an opportunity. Markus was obviously an alcoholic, and a struggling one. It's likely that this substance abuse was a part of his trigger. His... _actions_ from before were the result of drinking combined with the rage he felt towards the bureau. It's possible that his whole kidnapping was a part of one long bender, and this was the first time he was seeing the real Markus. Now that his sadistic tendencies have faded just as the alcohol left his bloodstream, there was only remorse left. 

And remorse was what he needed. 

"I...I'm sorry, about Eli." He looked up into Markus' eyes, and seeing no anger there, continued. "I don't know what happened to him, but I'm sure he was a good son." 

"He was, he was." Markus smiled a bit, his eyes lighting up with a sad remembrance. "He was so good at sports, always jumping at an opportunity to go to the pool or the baseball field. And he was smart as a whip, too. He loved science and biology. H-He wanted t-to be a doctor, w-when he was older. He wanted to help people, just like his dad." There was a tear, a single tear, traveling down his cheek, and Spencer couldn't help but feel pity for the man. "He was only nine." 

Markus reached into the backpack and Spencer tensed, only relaxing when he drew out a small first aid kit. He tore open the packages for sterile gauze and medical tape, carefully starting to clean the cuts on his chest with peroxide before covering them. Spencer tried not to flinch away from the hands, but he couldn't help but let out a low groan when the peroxide started to burn in the deep scratches. 

"H-He wouldn't want this, you know that, right? He.... He looked up to you. Eli wouldn't want you to hurt me."

"I don't... I didn't _mean_ to hurt you, I was just so, so angry. They, the FBI, they took away my son, and there was nothing I could do about it. Until I finally realized I _could_ do something. I could hurt them just like they hurt me, take away someone they care about and love." He started to gently clean the wounds on his lower abdomen and Spencer looked away, certain he wouldn't be able to stomach seeing the words carved there again. "God, I was so drunk when I first thought of it. I just wanted to feel the blood on my hands and know that someone paid for what they did. You were... you're just the one unlucky enough to be here." 

The first aid kit was slowly put away, the extra bloody gauze discarded into the backpack. "I may've been drunk when I first thought this up, but I, I have to do this. I have to finish this. Eli... he deserves this much. " 

_'Empathy, sympathy, kindness. Humanize yourself.'_

"Markus, I'm... I'm s-cared." He looked down at his hands, feeling a tear slip slowly down his face (he hated that it was completely real, just as the tremor in his voice was). "I, I j-just want to see my mom again." 

"I'm not- You are _not_ going to die here, kid. I just need a few more days, and then everything will be alright, you'll see." Markus pulled a granola bar from the backpack, opening it and tearing off the packaging. One end was held up to Spencer's lips and, as much as his stomach was rolling, he forced himself to take a bite. 

_'Cooperate.'_

"You're so much like Eli, y'know? The hair, the eyes." The man lifted a hand to his cheek, brushing the bruise there gently. Spencer couldn't help but flinch at the sudden contact. Markus chuckled, softly, sadly, before continuing to slowly feed him. "He had so much potential, so much left for him to do, and then it was all ripped away in an instant." A pause. "He was too young, for all this." 

There was silence, for a minute. Despite everything, the care in Markus' movements made Spencer's heart steadily slow down, his breathing calm. This Markus, this Markus was safe. Well, _relatively_ safe. He's not a sadist, he won't hurt him without provocation. This was the man he might be able to convince to let him go. 

Soon the granola bar was gone and the wrapper was put into the backpack (always that backpack, there was something about that backpack) and an instant camera was taken out. There was something like an apology on Markus' face. "It took five days, to find him. Five days where he was just... gone, gone. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he was dead, but it t-took five days for them to find the, the..." 

Spencer watched as the camera was prepped. "Why... Are you t-taking my picture?"

"Your team, they deserve to know you're still alive. It's more than I ever got." 

"You don't have to do this, Markus. You don't have to-"

He saw the steel begin to enter the man's eyes again, and he knew it wasn't good. He saw the wounded man fade and the mission-oriented killer resurface. He saw any hope he had of talking Markus down burn away. "I _do_ have to do this, Spencer. It's the next step." 

"I-In your plan for revenge? M-Markus, you know how crazy this is! You don't want to hurt me." His voice was pleading, begging that the man before him was still somewhat sane. "I can help you."

"No one can help me, not now." And the flash went off, sending a spike of pain through his head. A picture, two, were taken of his face. He looked down, not wanting to stare straight into the lens. He knew that the flash must have picked up every detail of the bruising that now littered his face. 

The dizziness started again, that lightheaded fog that laid over his brain that just screamed 'concussion' and he knew that, with all his injuries, he wouldn't be conscious for much longer. 

"I... I'm so, so sorry about Eli, Markus. Whatever happened to him, he didn't deserve it. But I... I have a family, friends. I have a life, Markus, and people who are sad that I am gone. I think, I think we both know that if I'm here much longer, I'm not going to come out." He looked up, make sure all the fear and pain and exhaustion showed on his face. "Please, man, I don't want to die. Not like this."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Reid" Markus said, standing up and grabbing the backpack. "But the FBI... they need to learn. They need to learn that people aren't pawns for them to play with and sacrifice at will. I... I can only hope that this will teach them." 

And then the door was shut, leaving Spencer alone. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute, yet they were not even close to the speed of his heart. He knew, then, that for all his skill in profiling, he wasn't going to get out of this by talking. Markus would see this through to the end, whether that included his death or not. 

The control he needed so desperately was eluding him. He could feel the signs of another panic attack steadily begin (the walls were crashing in and there's was no way for him to get out), the pounding of his head slowly take over his eyesight. He could do nothing but breathe deeply and will himself to stay awake just a little while longer. 

As his breathing started to pick up, just as he could feel himself about to give in to the fear and pain and check out, his eyes noticed something. A dot of blue amid the black of the covers on the bed. And he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the nausea churning in his stomach, to reach over and grab the thing no matter how much it hurt. 

It must've been in one of the side pockets of the backpack, and fallen out when Markus picked it up. 

The moment his fingers closed around it, he smiled, a soft laugh escaping. This was it, this was how he was going to get out of here. That smile still lit his face as the world blurred and spun and the darkness came back once more. 

Gripped tightly in his right hand was a small ballpoint pen.

{~`~}

_  
_

He had to do this. He had to do this. He had to do this. He had to do this. He had to do this. He had to do this. He had to do this.

The litany kept going through his head as he walked steadily from the door he'd closed. This was for Eli, for all the other little boys who had been hurt by agents whose only focus was on moving up in the bureau. This was for those who were trampled and left like nothing because they weren't _worth enough._

That agent's blood was still on his hands. 

When he'd woken up, with a pounding headache that signaled a hangover, he'd been laying next to the agent. There was blood all over his hands, and it only took a quick glance over to figure out why. The cuts were deep, still sluggishly bleeding, and he knew what had happened, even if he didn't remember it. 

His first instinct had been to grab the bottle of whiskey again and drown out his troubles. It was so much easier when he was drunk and the rage was burning inside of him, the need to see pain. But the agent needed help, or those cuts would get infected, and he'd promised Eli that no one would die. 

The photographs in his hand detailed the abuse the agent had been through. The bruises that spread across his face, the fear in his eyes as they stared downwards, unfocused. He shoved them in an envelope as quickly as he could, worried he'd rip them apart if he held them any longer. His team deserved to know he was alive. 

He glanced back across the warehouse (he'd rented it under the table for a few hundred bucks from a friend) to where the office used to be. He'd spent a week painting, moving everything in there so it was a perfect recreation of Eli's bedroom. He couldn't stand the thought of someone else ripping it apart, not caring about the kid who'd lived there, when his house was foreclosed a month ago. 

Settling onto the dirty mattress he'd set up in one corner, Markus put his head in his hands. He had three days to go, three days before this would all end, and he'd finally be free, even if that was in jail. The people would learn of what their 'protectors' had done, and the FBI would finally be taught a lesson. 

His dirty fingers brushed a small picture of Eli he'd taped to the wall. His little boy had been through so much, so much that no kid should ever have to go through. And he would make sure that no other kid had to face the same thing, not when they can be saved. 

The whiskey bottle was in his hands and half empty before he even realized it.

{~`~}

_"Is everyone already in the conference room?" Spencer asked as he walked next to JJ. "I've never seen Morgan even in the office this early."_

_"Let's just say Garcia threatened to do some.... interesting things with photoshop if he didn't show up on time today." She said, looking at him with a broad smile._

_"The one threat that even Morgan quakes in fear at." He said with a laugh, thinking of just what Garcia could've threatened the normally suave man with that would frighten him._

_They reached the door to the conference room, and Spencer looked at the closed door suspiciously. It was not normally closed, he knew that even after only working here for two months.... "They found out, didn't they?"_

_JJ smiled again, looking at the closed door. "Hotch told them you'd figure it out, but they ignored him. Garcia found it in your file a few days ago and she had a minor freak-out that she almost missed it."_

_"Why was she.... No, I don't think I want to know." He replied, shuddering at the idea of what Garcia could do with his file._

_"Just... act surprised? She spent a while putting this together."_

_He nodded, smiling, and opened the door. The room was dark, but the lights were quickly turned on as confetti was thrown and the members of the BAU jumped out of the shadows, yelling 'happy birthday.'_

_He should've expected them to learn about his birthday, but he'd hoped he'd have a year, maybe two, before.... this. He didn't exactly like being the center of attention._

_The cake on the table was beautiful, with two candles displaying '22' proudly. There were three balloons tied to their chairs and everyone except Gideon was wearing a hat (even Hotch, something he was sure Garcia would pull off surveillance tapes and treasure forever)._

_"I... I don't know what to say." He said quietly, looking at the motley crew of people gathered around the table. He'd only been there two months, and already he'd been accepted. That was... that was completely new. "Thank you, guys. It's awesome."_

_Looking around at all them, he knew that he'd finally found it: his family._

{~`~}

Spencer awoke with a gasp, eyes quickly darting around the room before squeezing shut. _'You're alone, Markus isn't here. You're safe, you're safe.'_ If anything, his head hurt more than it had before passing out, and he tried not to think of the statistics (an average of 155 people die each day from traumatic brain injuries and many of them actually went to a hospital). He could feel the sweat that was accumulating on his brow even as a chill ran through his body. So he had fever, too.

He was jerked out of his thoughts when he shifted, slightly, and the object in his hand moved. He looked down at the small pen, and remembered what had happened before he'd passed out. Wasting only a second to listen for footsteps, he quickly unscrewed the cap and took out the ink cartridge. 

There, resting on the covers, was a spring. Excitement and, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope bloomed in his chest. He grabbed the little spiral with shaking hands, his fingers struggling to straighten it out. He couldn't help looking up towards the door every couple of seconds, terrified that any moment Markus could walk in. And he knew, now, what he could do. But the metal was thin, ductile, and it only took a few minutes before he was done. 

His head was pounding, his hands shaking more than he thinks they ever have in his life, but in his fingers was his closest approximation of a handcuff key. 

He fit it into the cuff around his left wrist, twisting it gently and hoping that it wouldn't bend or break. But the metal was just strong enough to work, and the cuff popped open. He couldn't help but rub the reddened and cut skin underneath, before working on the right cuff. 

For the first time in days, he was free. He shuffled farther down to the edge of the bed, before swinging his legs over the side. The sudden change of position was making his head spin more and more, and he realized that either his concussion was worse than he thought, or something was really wrong. He had to get out of there quickly; he really needed help. 

He looked down at his bare chest, looking at the white bandages splattered with red that littered it. This was... this was going to hurt. It was going to be excruciating. He grabbed the gag that was still hanging loosely around his neck and shoved it deep in his mouth before taking a deep breath and standing. 

Each cut stretched, pulling against scabs and clots that were just starting to form. Blood was starting to drip down his chest again. He yelped into the gag, biting down hard on the fabric as he let out one long groan. 

The pain from his chest lessened when he was fully upright, but his head was spinning. Spots were starting to encroach on his vision and _he can't pass out, not now, not when he's so close._ He ripped the gag from his mouth and threw up on the floor, gagging at the world's rapid turning. He stumbled against the bed, legs numb, gripping it tightly and hoping that Markus hadn't heard him. 

There were still no footsteps coming from beyond the door. He glanced quickly around the room that he'd been kept prisoner in for... however long, looking for something to use as a weapon. Beyond the lamp that was on the side table, there was nothing. He'd have to rely on stealth and speed (two things he's not the best at) to get out. 

The first step he took had his knees almost buckling, but they held on. He took another shaky step forward, then another, then another. He reached door and twisted the knob carefully, slowly, without noise. It wasn't locked, thank god, and it opened out into a small hallway. 

The first thing he noticed was the fact that he wasn't in a house. It was grey, concrete. Looking back, he saw the bedroom he'd been in was really a retrofitted office. He was in a warehouse. A quick glance showed the hallway led to a larger storage area to the right and a door to what he hoped was the outside to the left. 

His steps were slow, measured, as he focused on the door. It was like trying to walk on a tiny ship in rough waters; the world kept tilting and he held onto the wall for balance. The only sound was his harsh, ragged breathing and the _drip drip drip_ of his blood against the floor. His vision tunneled. 

_Just keep walking, keep walking, Spencer. You just have to make it that far, then you can rest._

His knees buckled and he landed hard on the floor, only a few feet away from the door. The sound of his knees cracking against the concrete was immeasurably loud to his ears, but Markus didn't appear. With a whimper, he stood again, and started to close the last few feet to the door. 

_Your family's on the other side of that door, your mom and the team. Just a few more steps and you'll see the sun again. Just a few more steps and you'll be safe._

Bloody fingers grasped the knob, and a single tear ran down his face when it opened. For a brief, beautiful second, he could feel the sunshine on his face, and he thought _'I made it, I really made it._ ' He would see Morgan again, and Hotch and Elle and Garcia. 

He was going to make it out of here alive. 

Then a heavy pressure hit into his lower back.

The force pushed him into the door, slamming it closed and smothering the sunlight. He looked down, gasping, putting a hand to his stomach. It came away red, glistening bright, bright red. And his knees finally buckled for what he was sure would be the last time. 

_He'd been so close, so close._

His cheek was against the ground as he gasped for air that didn't want to enter his lungs. His blurry eyes focused on Markus, hand outstretched with a gun held shakily in his fingers. It clattered to the floor a second later as the man ran to his side, hauling him up against the wall. 

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." Another hand was pressed into his wound, the pressure making Spencer groan and arch his back. Agony finally slammed into him, and he let out a choked-off scream. "This wasn't supposed to happen, this wasn't how it ended!" 

"M... M-Markus?" He groaned out, coughing slightly as iron filled his mouth. God, it hurt so much, more than anything he'd ever felt before. He'd been so close, so close to getting out of there- 

"I'm so sorry, kid. I- you weren't supposed to die!" His eyes started to droop closed even as he wanted to scream at them to stay open, that he needed to stay awake. He felt Markus' forehead rest against his shoulder, felt in frightening detail the tears that started to stain his skin there. "I'm so sorry, Eli. I'm so sorry." 

The world was fading, greying out. It no longer spun, just held completely still, unmoving. He heard a phone dialing, a frantic voice talking above him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Then another gunshot, softer than he thought it should be. 

There was silence, then. Perfect, complete silence. He felt almost peaceful as his blood continued to stain his chest, turning his once white skin red. Breathing was hard, much too hard, and he felt his lungs slow, slow, before stopping. 

In his mind, he saw the team. He saw them all sitting at the round table, getting another case. He saw them laugh and smile and live, live in a way he knew he would not be much longer. He saw his mom, writing in her notebooks, finally at peace. 

Something was pulling him away. He didn't want to leave, but it was insistent. It whispered at him to just let it all go, to let himself fade and finally be free from this agony. But he didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave his family. He wanted to see them all again, he wanted to have to endure another round of relentless teasing from Elle, more pranks from Morgan. He wanted to see pride light up in Gideon's eyes and Hotch's hard shell break as he showed the rare bit of emotion. He wanted to be called Spence again by JJ. He wanted to flirt with Garcia, just one more time. He wanted to see his mom again, his real mom. The Diana who held him in his arms when he had a nightmare and read to him when the bullies got bad. 

He wanted just one more day. 

So he held on

{~`~}

_Let's dance in style, let's dance for a while  
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies  
Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst  
Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?_

{~`~}

"Spence, Spence, hey, look at me. Can you hear me, Spence, it's JJ! Come on, just hold on, you can do it, just-- God, Spence, don't you dare die on me now, don't you fucking da-- M-Morgan, I don't think he's breathing!"

{~`~}

_Some are like water, some are like the heat_  
_Some are a melody and some are the beat_  
_Sooner or later they all will be gone_  
_Why don't they stay young?_

{~`~}

"Don't give up on us now, Pretty Boy. Come on, Spencer, I need you to, just-- God, breathe, breathe for me, man! I can't-- I can't lose you. Not, not now, man, please!"

{~`~}

_So many adventures given up today  
So many songs we forgot to play  
So many dreams swinging out of the blue  
Oh let it come true_

{~`~}

"We're losing him!"

{~`~}

_Forever young_  
_I want to be forever young_  
_Do you really want to live forever_  
_Forever, and ever?_

{~`~}

He hadn't wanted to get up today.

The sun was shining through his room's windows, beating down onto his bed. It was a nice day, one where children would play outside in the streets, relishing the rare bit of warmth in February. This was Arizona, though, so he doubted that having a warm day was anything rare (sixty-five degrees was the average temperature here for January). 

It wouldn't do anyone good if he spent today locked in this hotel room, too weighed down by emotions to go outside and face the world. And besides, Morgan had been kind enough to come with him (more like bought himself a ticket on the same flight so he couldn't say no, but that was just semantics). He needed to show he could do this. He needed to prove that he wasn't a victim. 

( _Because that was what Gideon meant, in that letter he'd left for you in his cabin. He saw you as his son, and he couldn't stand to see you in danger anymore. Another father abandoning you, and it was all your fault._ )

He wasn't a victim. 

He wasn't. 

His arm gripped the far side of the bed as he dragged himself to the edge, swinging his legs over the side. One deep breath, another, before he tried to stand. The numb feeling of his legs (he had tried so hard to get used to it, but he never could. Like the loss of feeling was so foreign his mind couldn't comprehend it) was worse today, and he had to grab on to the edge of the bed for support as they refused to hold him. 

His therapist had said this would happen. That the emotions of this anniversary would likely make him take a step back in his recovery, and that he shouldn't be discouraged. As he grabbed the wheelchair that'd been put in the corner the night before, the one he'd hoped not to have to used, he felt pretty damn discouraged. 

He remembered when he'd first woken up, after being kept under for a week due to the near constant operations he'd had to have. That doctor looking him in the eye while he described every injury, every horrible thing that Markus had done to him (a grade three concussion, sixty-two stitches, and scars that will never fade). He only looked away when he finally got to the gunshot wound. The gunshot wound which had hit his spine and collapsed a lung before exiting out of his chest, causing most to say it was a miracle he even lived. The gunshot wound that would restrict his mobility for years, if not most of his life. 

He'd stayed silent through it all, as he was told about the physical therapy he'd have to go through, the wheel chair he'd have to use for at least the first year. He didn't let himself break down until his friends were gone and he was supposed to be sleeping and the tears just wouldn't stay back any longer. 

He got himself dressed, slowly, cursing at his legs which refused to function right. On good days, he could walk without any aid. Most days, he used a cane for stability. And on bad days, days like this, the numbness was too much and he was stuck in a wheelchair. 

He hated these days. 

There was a knock on the door and he went over to it, looking through the lower peephole before opening it. There was Morgan, the same man he always was, with a half-smile on his face and rental car keys in his hand. 

"Bad day?" He asked, as though it was the same as asking about the weather (and it was, at this point).

"Yeah."

"Are you ready to go, pretty boy?" He asked, throwing the keys up into the air and catching them. Spencer just nodded, grabbing his messenger bag before going out into the hallway and towards the elevator. "I know you don't like it when I ask you, but how are things in that brain of yours?"

He flashed back to memories of screaming at his teammates whenever they asked if he was okay ( _they thought you were a victim_ ). "I'm fine, it's just..."

"A lot?"

"Yeah." 

The car ride was silent. It was a heavy, uncomfortable quiet that he knew Morgan wanted to break with a joke or something, but couldn't bring himself to. As much as he normally liked the laughter and happiness and distraction that that would bring, the silence was nice. His brain was going at a million miles an hour, and he appreciated the time to work through it. The time to prepare. 

There were no cars in the parking lot when they arrived. It was only just past nine, and the cemetery didn't open until ten. The groundskeeper gave them permission to come early so they wouldn't be disturbed. 

"Do you want me to stay here, Reid?" Morgan asked, breaking the silence that'd fallen. He shook his head. 

"I don't want to be alone, up there." He saw his friend look at him out of the corner of his eye, appraising him. Probably trying to figure out exactly what he was thinking. 

"Okay, if that's what you want." 

It was only a minute before they were up on the top of a small ridge, looking down at two graves. 'Elijah Williams,' one read, the dates 1993 to 2002 etched deep into the stone. Reid reached into his messenger bag, grabbing a small backpack and a bundle of flowers. His hands shook as he stood up, taking two careful, deliberate steps up to the headstone. 

He laid the items gently on the ground, looking at them for a brief second before sitting back down. Elijah.... as horrible as Markus may have been, Eli was innocent. He was an innocent boy who had been let down by the system. Jonathon Walters, the man who'd taken lead on Eli's case, was a bastard. He let that pedophile therapist continue to work with children even after he knew what he was doing, all so he could get enough evidence to get the man on a bigger charge and further his own career. What that man had done to Eli... it was no wonder he killed himself. 

His gaze flitted over to the other grave. 'Markus Williams.' 1956 to 2003. He was the man who'd kidnapped him, who'd beaten him and branded him and shot him. He was the reason he was still stuck in the local police station every where they went even after being with the BAU for almost two years. He was the reason he was in this damn chair. 

But even after all he did, Spencer couldn't really blame him. The FBI allowed his son to be abused. The FBI was why a little nine year old boy was driven to suicide. And with the amount of alcohol he was drinking, it was a miracle that he'd even been able to live, much less show the remorse and pain he'd seen when tied up in that fake bedroom. 

Another shaking hand reached into his bag, pulling out a faded, torn picture of a little boy. Markus had had this, hanging on a wall above a mattress in that warehouse. It was his only possession that wasn't food, a weapon, or whiskey. He laid it, gently, on top of the headstone. 

He'd almost left the bureau, once he was able to even think about going back to work. After hearing everything that they'd done... it shook his faith, in the law. The only reason he's still there, at the BAU, is because of his friends, his family. 

A year ago, he'd been shot. A year ago, Markus had killed himself, only three days away from the first anniversary of his son's death. A year ago, he'd died, in the arms of his family. And a year ago, he'd come back, he'd held on strong enough to keep living. And even if some of the voices in his head said otherwise, that was a good thing. 

He sat there for almost an hour, looking at the sun shine against the stone. Thinking about how different things could have been. Thinking about how much his life had changed in only a short amount of time. He jumped when he felt an unexpected hand on his shoulder, looking back into the kind gaze of Morgan's eyes. 

"Pretty boy, you're crying." He quickly wiped away the tears that had started to fall down his cheeks. He wasn't happy, or sad, just... alive. Broken, glued back together, but alive. And that was enough to make him cry, today. "You good, kid?" 

"Yeah," He grabbed the hand that was resting on his shoulder, squeezing it gently, knowing Morgan needed the reassurance as much as he did. "Yeah, I'm good."

And he was. 

He really was.

{~`~}

_"... because sometimes people do feel that way. Sometimes your life feels like it's caving in on you. Sometimes people really do feel like they don't want to exist, like they want to curl up into a ball, and go into that place between life and death. Saying 'I don't want to exist' isn't the same as saying 'I want to die.' It's saying 'I wish that, for the time being, I could go somewhere and not have to feel.' I don't think there's anything wrong with that."_

_~ Anonymous_

**Author's Note:**

> ~WARNINGS~
> 
> suicide: by minor character w/ no graphic description, ideation by main character in the past, mention of suicide by a child in the past  
> Child abuse: relatively graphic depictions w/ a main character  
> Alcoholism: both in the past and current  
> Graphic descriptions: of physical abuse  
> Cursing  
> Brief allusion to child sexual abuse: briefly implied about a non-canon character in the past  
> Brief internalized ableism: main character refers to himself as 'broken' when using a wheelchair
> 
> ~References~
> 
> mi querido genio - my dear genius
> 
> pequeño genio - little genius
> 
> "It went many years, but at last came a knock, and I thought of the door with no lock to lock" - from the poem The Lockless Door by Robert Frost
> 
> The song "Forever Young" was written by Marian Gold and sung by Alphaville
> 
> ~Notes~ 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading! If you loved it, hated it, or are anywhere in between, please leave a kudo or comment! Thanks y'all!
> 
> **~You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.~**


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